


The Nightmare before (and after) Sherlock Holmes

by ConsultingHound



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Crossover, Just a bit of fun, M/M, Nightmarelock, The Sherlock characters in the Nightmare universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingHound/pseuds/ConsultingHound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So someone (mccoy.co.vu) wanted a Nightmare Before Christmas Sherlock crossover fic and who was I to refuse?  I apologise if this fic is terrible but I've tried my best and haven't had time for an extensive edit so if you see anything horrendously wrong please say so I can sort it out.  I hope you enjoy! :D</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Nightmare before (and after) Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> So someone (mccoy.co.vu) wanted a Nightmare Before Christmas Sherlock crossover fic and who was I to refuse? I apologise if this fic is terrible but I've tried my best and haven't had time for an extensive edit so if you see anything horrendously wrong please say so I can sort it out. I hope you enjoy! :D

The celebrations were still going on.  How anyone could stand it was beyond Sherlock but he supposed having the best Halloween on record did that to _average_ creatures ( _how one rates a Halloween he wasn’t entirely sure either_ ).  He slumped in his chair and plucked at his violin, sometimes producing a screeching noise, which caused Gladstone to float through the wall from the kitchen and stare at him until he stopped.

“What do you want boy?” Sherlock sighed and lifted his head on his hand in order to see his dog properly but Gladstone merely produced a high pitched whining sound and flicked his gaze towards the door.  On cue, the doorbell screamed.

“Sherlock,” a familiar voice shouted cheerfully through the door.  “You in there?”  Sherlock didn’t reply but reattached his skull.

“Sherlock please,” the voice continued, “We haven’t seen you all day!”  Still nothing.  Sherlock felt Gladstone staring at him but he merely detached a rib and threw it to distract him.  He hoped it wouldn’t come back as saliva infested as the last one; it did nothing for his structure. 

“Sherlock!” the voice panicked through the door. 

“The door is open Lestrade, if you only bothered to look for once” Sherlock conceded.  Doors were awfully difficult to replace these days.  The man that entered had greying hair and a plastered on grin.  When he saw the state of the room though his face twisted round and revealed one more horrified. 

“Well surprisingly I do have a thing called manner, Sherlock what the hell have you done?” 

“Bored,” Sherlock muttered. 

“I’m sorry but what?” Lestrade asked incredulously, clearly focusing on the variety of experiments littering the space.

“Bored,” Sherlock roared and sprang up, beginning to pace. 

“Sherlock we’ve only just finished this year-”

“No, Halloween’s dull, been there done that.  Need something new, need something different, something more engaging” Sherlock ranted.  He stopped suddenly by the bookcase.  His finger trailed down one of the spines, thoughtfully.  _Agatha Christie._  

“I’ve got it,” he said, whirling round.  “I’m going to be a detective.”  With that he bounded out the door, Gladstone serenely gliding behind him, leaving Lestrade to look momentarily pleased at having diverted a minor tantrum and then to look confused as he shouted “What’s a detective?”

“I’ll explain later.  My house, 3 pm.  _Do not_ be late,” was his only reply.

###

The assortment of people inside 221B that afternoon was very strange, even by this town’s standard.  Sherlock waited for total silence, perched in his armchair, before speaking. 

“It has come to my attention, that this town needs something new.  Something exciting.  Something _different_.  No one else appears to have come up with anything and so; obviously, there was no choice but to forge my own idea.” He paused to ensure everyone’s continued engagement.  The bones that used to be his fingers steepled themselves under his chin.  “The one thing this town is lacking is proper law enforcement.  That is why I have elected to become a Detective, our towns only Consulting Detective.  Now, I have gathered you here because this is not an endeavour I can take on alone, unfortunately.  You are the people that aren’t woefully inadequate and therefore will serve your purposes sufficiently.  Now Lestrade, you will direct cases, see which ones will hold my attention and designate all others accordingly.”  Lestrade looked resigned but secretly was quite pleased with a role that didn’t require much beyond his normal job.  He quickly agreed and left to deal with things other than mad skeletons and their equally mad ideas. 

“You three,” Sherlock pointed at Hope (a being with a mask of a face easily forgotten but which gave a growing sense of unease), Shan (a short being with an intricate mask from Chinese mythology) and Irene Adler (a being wearing nothing but her mask, which was open and yet unreadable) “are to find me the best pathologist you can.”  They all nodded, rose from the sofa they were seated on and disappeared, Adler lingering to blow a kiss to Sherlock.  The figure seated on Sherlock’s right shuffled in annoyance. 

“John,” Sherlock’s tone softened slightly, turning to the doctor made up of patchwork stitching from a time spent fighting a war before becoming more rags than person, “I’m going to need an assistant.  I was hoping you would be willing to take on that role.”  It was the closest anyone was going to get to a request rather than an instruction. 

“I would love to Sherlock,” John said, finally taking his eyes away from glaring daggers at the door and smiling.  He only got a quirk of a smile in return but it was enough.  “I’ll have to ask Harry about it though.”  Sherlock frowned.

“I’ll deal with it” John dismissed with a wave and Sherlock nodded before turning to the others.  “You lot will be my eyes on the streets.  Keep vigilant and if you see something, record all information, find me and _don’t_ be an idiot.”  They all scurried/ slid/ galloped out the room, intent on pleasing their reluctant King.

Sherlock saw that they all dispersed evenly and spun round to find John struggling out of his chair and limping over to the doorway. 

“You really should think about correcting that stitching you know,” he pointed out, delaying John’s departure. 

“I’ll do it later,” John replied, leaning on the door frame.  They always stood awkwardly close together, when they were allowed together that was.

“You always say that and then you never do.  Why state something that is a lie?” Sherlock asked. 

“Because it amuses me to watch you work it out,” John grinned. 

“Are you ever going to stop being so pedestrian?” Sherlock whined teasingly.

“Are you ever going to tidy up?” John countered, giggling.  A clanging sound echoed outside, followed by a cry of “JOHN”. 

“Harry’s up then,” the aforementioned runaway sighed. 

“You’ll have to go,” Sherlock attempted a casual tone.

“Yeah.  See you later Sherlock.”

“Goodbye John.”

They lingered until a second shout was issued at which John hurried off and Sherlock returned to his violin, his thoughts plagued with neat stitching and big blue eyes.

###

He should have known that things wouldn’t run as smoothly as hoped. 

“What is this?” Sherlock looked at the bound and gagged body on his living room floor. 

“It’s the Pathologist you wanted,” they said in unison.

“No.  This is a forensics, clearly.”  Sherlock ripped off the tape covering the man’s mouth.  “You’re a forensic aren’t you?”

“Where the hell am I?” the man cried.

“You see, no good,” Sherlock said, re-taping his mouth.  “Get me a proper Pathologist next time.  And be quick about it.”

###

Over the next few weeks several cases appeared.  Sherlock’s favourite by far had to be the glowing pink monster, much acclaimed for her haunting of several news corporations, spread out, oozing a green sludge onto the carpet of an abandoned flat on the outskirts of town.  The chase was exhilarating, dragging John behind him (who had thankfully re-stitched his leg and was much more efficient) even more so. 

“How did you manage to sneak out?” Sherlock asked while they were sat in the kitchen, John making adjustments to Sherlock’s coat which had gotten ripped while running after an unknown assailant (“Why do you even need a coat?”  “Bones can get cold too you know.  I should be the one asking you that question, you’re 50% knitted wool.”  “Piss off Sherlock.”). 

“I drugged her drink.  That’ll teach her,” John reasoned and Sherlock had to agree with his assessment.  Anything that gained more time with John was a good thing by his standard.  However there was a down side.  John was locked up for a week and so Sherlock had to continue the investigation without him.  It was lucky then, that John managed to arrive in time to stop Hope (the least trusted of the trio) from breaking Sherlock into splinters, but not before they garnered the name ‘Moriarty’.  That escapade bought him another week of being locked up and so another week of boredom for Sherlock.  The recently-acclaimed Detective was surprised that Harry hadn’t worked out where the narcotics were stashed (in the top kitchen cabinet, near the back) but pleased that she hadn’t.  It wouldn’t do for John to lose his only escape route.  Sherlock needed him, needed him with a growing fervour that even the slightest separation was a grievance.  It was also highly annoying waiting for John to sneak out each time but Sherlock didn’t focus on that part as much.

A few days later, just as he was finishing preparing to go to another investigation (a smuggling ring, a hound from hell and a painting gone missing, all in a 3 street radius), Shan and Irene turned up, this time with a woman. 

“Your Pathologist, Mr Holmes,” Adler grinned. “I hope she is sufficient.  Such a pretty little thing too.”  What he was presented with was a quivering wreck of a girl who was indeed, his promised Pathologist. 

“Excellent.  Take her to where we set up the Lab and _play nice_ ,” Sherlock demanded. 

“Of course Mr Holmes,” Adler purred as Shan led the girl out, “Anything for you my dear.”

It was then that Sherlock went to fetch John, only to find he was not at his house, nor any of his usual hiding places.  Sherlock felt an unusual sensation building in his stomach, a foreboding.  Worry. 

“Gladstone?  Come on boy,” Sherlock sprinted away, his ghostly friend appearing from thin air at his heels. 

###

John awoke groggily.  He’d been knocked out, that he was sure of but the why and when and how and all other questions eluded him.  He was chained to an upright table on a life-sized playing board, with massive dice rattling round the edges.  Next to him was a human who looked like she was having a panic attack. 

“Are you okay?” he asked because apparently his brain and mouth weren’t co-operating today and so he felt the need to ask pointless questions.  It was at that point John realised he’d spent too much time with Sherlock/ thinking of Sherlock. 

“So what do we have here?” a figure swung from the ceiling, its voice silky.  “A little treat all for me?  A cute little pathologist far from home I see and isn’t it our _favourite_ patchwork doctor who’s running out of hope.”

“Who are you?” John shouted from where he was chained up, his arms wrapped around the table and tied at the back.

“Jim Moriarty.  Hi!  You’ve got a lot of fighting spirit.  I like that.  It’ll be more fun to watch you break as I pull out your stitches and stuffing, piece by piece.”

“Sherlock will come rescue us, you just wait,” John growled.  The voice’s laugh was chilling.

“Oh honey boy, he’s long gone.  Ripped to shreds over the Reichenbach Falls mystery, if my plan worked, which it will have, I assure you.  So you see,” the figure said, moving into the light, “you’ve got no choice but to play my game.”  The figure was in the shape of a man but upon closer inspection, he was made up of hundreds of spiders, all crawling to create the horrifying creature before them.  “Now heads or tails my darlings?” It appeared that he was grinning, although it was difficult to tell.

“Neither.”

Moriarty’s face fell into a snarl before correcting itself into a dark grin as he span to face the skeletal figure in the doorway.

“So he returns, back from the dead.  The Detective King.”

“Moriarty I presume?” Sherlock’s tone was light as he slipped onto the board. 

“Oh aren’t you a clever boy?” Moriarty mocked. 

“Thank you for noticing.  So many people miss it these days,” Sherlock replied smoothly.  They were both pacing round the table which was beginning to spin, very slowly. 

“I know.  Aren’t ordinary people _adorable_?  Yours are positively delectable,” Moriarty smirked.  The spinning was growing faster and gradually making John feel more and more uneasy.  He turned his head to his shoulder and began plucking out the thread.

“You will not harm them,” Sherlock growled.

“Oh won’t I know?  Why, because of _you_?  You used to be great Sherlock, the best, most terrifying.  Now you’re just disappointing.  Maybe you should let someone else lead the way, someone with more vision.”

John had an arm free which was currently untying the rest of his body.  He slipped off of the table and ran to untie the other victim. 

“Never,” Sherlock spat.  The spinning jerked to a halt as Sherlock lashed out, spiders cascading into a random formation and fleeing.  Several spring traps descended squishing them. 

“John?” Sherlock yelled, quickly scanning the room. 

“Sherlock?”  The respond came from a corner.  Huddled were John (missing an arm) and the unnamed girl (unconscious, probably from the stress). 

“How did you find us?” John asked, standing on unsteady legs.  Sherlock rushed to help him. 

“Gladstone led me here.  It was an obvious trap; an amateur could have spotted it.”

“An amateur like you, you mean?  Oh don’t give me that look; you’ve only had 2 cases, both of which nearly ended in one of our imminent deaths,” John attempted to joke.

“I had the situation entirely under control.  Look I rang Lestrade and everything,” Sherlock said haughtily. 

John laughed and Sherlock found himself being embraced in a one arm hug. 

“I’m really glad you’re safe,” John whispered. 

“Stupid sentiment,” Sherlock whispered back, earning a chuckle from John. 

“Hey, are you lot okay down there?” Lestrade’s voice came through the ceiling. 

“We’re fine.  All hostages accounted for.  What took you so long?  Have you got Adler and Shan?” Sherlock said with impatience.

“Yes.  We’re not entirely incompetent you know,” Lestrade sighed. “Now get up here, Sarah wants to check everyone over.”

###

What felt like many hours passed in which the Pathologist was dispatched to her own dimension, John was checked over and had his arm reapplied and Lestrade and his ‘team’ asked far too many questions about safety assessments and ‘what was he thinking?’ and were they sure Moriarty was finished until both of Lestrade’s faces had had enough.  Then finally, _finally_ , it was just Sherlock and John sat up, watching the twisting landscape. 

“That one looks like a badger,” John said, pointing to a cloud that indeed, did look like a badger.  

“Child’s play.  That one however looks like an army issue revolver,” Sherlock said, pointing to another cloud.  John peered and squinted and turned his head.

“No it doesn’t.”

“Can’t we pretend?”

“Since when did you pretend?”

“Since now.  I’ve been alive long enough, I think I deserve to try new things.”

“Like playing Detective?” John smirked.

“Yes, well, it’s the effort that counts,” Sherlock said petulantly. 

John laughed and Sherlock blurted out “Move in with me.” 

This made John pause and Sherlock was about to take it back when he answered “Alright then.”

Sherlock smiled and John rested his head on his shoulder.

“You’re really uncomfortable,” he announced but didn’t move away.

“Marry me?” Sherlock asked.

“Now you’re just pushing your luck,” John said.

In the setting pinkish sun, Sherlock realised that, if he had the choice, he wouldn’t be a Detective or the scariest person in all of town.  If he had the choice, he would spend all his days just doing this, just _being_ with John at his side, until his bones fell to dust.  And that was perfect.  


End file.
